


❝hang me❞

by orphan_account



Series: There's no room for sunlight [2]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Flower Crowns, Flowers, Painting, Poetic, Suicidal Thoughts, The Hanging Tree, artist renjun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23017687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He's not entirely sure why he keeps on looking down the apple tree.
Series: There's no room for sunlight [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644487
Kudos: 6





	❝hang me❞

**Author's Note:**

> Definitely not for everyone.   
> On a side note, no one actually dies.

Hang me, says the lips kissed with red, wanting the crown of flowers to be pulled so tight around his neck until the air becomes thick and there will be nothing left to swallow. No more fear of what to do next, for money, for food, for nothing that has so much meaning in the rotten world.

And those quivering pupils that look at the other with fear only become deaf, not hearing the part where the other says to help him climb up the apple tree. He just stands there, watching his friend step on the branches and yelp at them when they break.

Neither of them notice the petals that fall at each pull, blossoms drop just like fat tears on the other's cheek. The drops went unnoticed, just as meaningless as feelings wasted on one another. The other will drop like a fly.

Gathering the pinkish petals he rubs them all over his face, and when letting them go, the tears hold onto the blooms like glue, making him laugh. The fluttering wings of butterflies causing earthquakes beneath their feet, somewhere far away they can smell the scent of lilacs and jasmines.

May another day pass, perhaps a week or a month, the boy climbs there to see until the apples become ripe. He counts on his fingers until all are left are three, then standing on his two feet he looks above the leaves and sees his future just beneath. Nothing. He'll become nothing if he keeps on living.

Even when his lungs become empty and lips swell with blue, he dreams of the soft blooms that would kiss his cheeks, just like they did with his friend. To laugh through tears until madness takes over and he'll feel some fragment of joy. To give bait to hope so that he'll walk on the earth for a few more years.

Hundreds of seconds passing, under the blankets he suffocates. Hiccuping until the memories fade into nostalgia, and then dementia takes over. He won't remember his purpose of why he climbed up the apple tree just to look down at the fallen petals.

Another second stood still, waiting for the other to remember, maybe even just his name. Yet all that dances around his mind is the broken record that keeps whispering that he's redundant. He believes it.

Nights don't move anymore, they wait just like the second, but the paintings keep looking at him. Yet what are they thinking? Perhaps pity, and pity only, though they wouldn't care if he'd just pass right there under the blankets. They just don't listen.

Gladiolas in the vase, covered in dust, shine under the moonlight, as plastic they are. His fingers pet the bedsheets, fingers shivering as he weeps in his pillow. Hoping that tomorrow he won't wake up, so that he wouldn't have to look down again.

Must have been a nightmare, his name comes to mind. Bougainvilleas growing out of his blood cells he becomes stuffed. The red from his nose becomes a purple river, coating the cloth with innocent petals.

Even when he swings his feet on the branch of the apple tree and looks down at his friend, he chants the two worded sentence like a prayer, wishing he'd already die, to be saved from further misery and having to feel everything around him. With the smile his lips carry he shouts the words louder and louder, so that his angels would hear him too.

Painting the tree of his nightmares, renjun blankly stares at the canvas. The gorgeous apple blossoms and blue sky with clouds as sweet as cotton, his chest aches from knowing the truth. The two boys in the painting laugh at his redundant thoughts, one of them kicking their feet in air, while the other stands in front of the tree. Only renjun can hear them, while record keeps stopping and replaying the same few seconds for hours, maybe even weeks. With the last detail put in place, the smiles begin to visit him in dreams.


End file.
